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should be done right, Detective.” She looked at the front window of the office, through which she could see the young agent carrying a stack of the desktop files she’d gone through the night before into the front office. “I don’t want to look back on this and think I might have been part of the problem.”
    Johnson said nothing.
    Waiting. She glanced at him, then back at the window. Police waiting. Goes with the eyes. “And . . . I can’t think of anything else to try.”
    Johnson rested his hands on his hips, letting his eyes drift to the front of the office. “I don’t think that’ll last,” he said, glancing at her sidelong, the corner of his mouth quirked upward.
    Calliope gave him a curious squint. “I’m sorry?”
    He raised one hand and let the hint of a smile grow into something open and comfortable. “Please don’t take offense, Miss—” He shook his head. “May I call you Calliope?” He extended his hand. “I’m Darryl.”
    She looked at his hand for only a second before taking it. “Sure . . .”
    â€œThank you.” He released her hand, now somehow awkward in a way that made Calliope return his smile. “Anyway, what I was saying; you don’t strike me as the sort of person who goes very long without any ideas. If you do think of something else to try, I’d just . . . appreciate it if you let me know.”
    â€œAhh . . .” Calliope shook her head, bemused. “Sure. Absolutely.” She smiled; small, but genuine. “Darryl.”
    â€œThank you, Calliope. Have a good night. Happy Halloween.” He turned back to his car.
    â€œHappy . . .” Calliope’s voice trailed off. “Oh. Huh. That explains the traffic.”
    â€œGlad I could help.” The detective smiled as he opened the door. “I’d better get home. Trick-or-treaters.” He climbed behind the wheel.
    â€œSure,” Calliope said, though his door had already closed. “Happy Halloween.”
    Johnson raised his hand in a final mute farewell and pulled away. Calliope watched the car roll down the street.
    â€œThe police won’t be able to help,” said a rough, almost familiar voice.
    Calliope’s head snapped around. “What the—”
    The vagrant from the night before was standing next to the old Jeep’s dented rear bumper. His hands were jammed deep inside his coat pockets. His hood moved a fraction of an inch as he spoke. “What I don’t understand is, the message on the answering machine told you to talk to someone who’d have answers.” The strange cadence of his speech made him sound like a mystic oracle born and raised in New Jersey. “But you just said you’ve got nothing else to try. That . . . that confuses me.”
    Calliope pointed at the lighted office window, her eyes locked on her stalker. “There is an armed federal agent sitting right in there.” Her heart hammered at her chest. “You might want to call him for help.”
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    Calliope slipped Josh’s gift baton out of her jacket pocket and flicked it open with the very satisfying and noticeable snick that always got people’s attention. She could see the vagrant’s attention shift. It was one of the reasons she liked the thing—between that sound and the resulting eighteen inches of black metal jutting from her fist, most people never noticed anything else.
    When the spray from the can in her off hand went into the depths of his hood, the transient’s head jerked back so violently it bounced off the side of Calliope’s Jeep. She was walking up to him by the time he hit the ground.
    â€œSeventeen percent oleoresin capsicum,” she commented, her voice conversational despite the violent writhing of her victim. “I went for the optional identifying dye mix.” She held the can at an angle to